Not Crazy
by queerpoet
Summary: Based on a glee angst prompt if Tina were bipolar and didn't tell anyone. The prompter requested angst about her secret, and a possible suicide attempt.


I remember the first day I was diagnosed.

It had followed a week of overzealous activity. My mind spun like a top, as I drove to the grocery and efficiently searched for bubble bath. Or when I again went to the local store and bought 3 cartons of orange juice because they were on sale. The way I circled the parking lot for an hour and a half, because I couldn't find my car. So long that the store manager came out and helped me find it.

How I drove home, deposited the juice, completely unaware of my strange activities.

How I fought my mother, tooth and nail, as she dragged me to the hospital, because I was scaring her. I was convinced I was spending a weekend with my cousin, and reacted violently when I heard our true destination. I had actually misheard her words, spun them into my own happy fantasy.

How I emerged, timid, still slightly manic, on 1200 MG of lithium, and an anti-anxiety drug.

How I wheedled my doctor down to 900 MG, and no anti-anxiety drug, because I just couldn't think with that high a dose.

I love to sing. My whole life, I crooned songs, alone in my room, where no one could hear. When the diagnosis happened, I thought I lost all of that. I was numb, chained to this disease, throbbing in my brain. Bipolar I; Manic with Psychotic Tendencies. My voice disappeared, and in its place, an aching blankness. Nothing but white noise.

Weeks and weeks of nothing. Even though I was "cured", now nothing thrilled me. I drifted through life, obsessed with the diagnosis.

Until I joined Glee club. I auditioned with "I Kissed A Girl,"and for four minutes, I pretended to be the confident and sexy Katy Perry. It won me my spot in Glee.

Thanks to Glee, I slowly rediscovered my old yearning for music, and tentatively, slowly, I began to come out of my shell. Singing in the chorus gave me a thrill, but what I wanted most was a solo. I had my first one, and eventually I met Mike.

Mike completely brought me out of my "sick" shell, seeing in me a creativity no one else saw. Thanks to him, I grew confident enough to deliver a solo about my love for him.

I was ecstatic about the song. Absolutely ecstatic. The medication was working, and I craved the opportunity to show the Glee club just how talented I was, despite my illness. To show them I was normal.

But it was horrible. Singing the song, I stared into Mike's shimmering eyes, full of love, and broke down. As I sang, I thought of all the hell I'd experienced over the last year, and how Mike had coaxed me to rejoin the world again.

The tears overwhelmed me, and the song dissolved into an incoherent mess. I was embarrassed, humiliated, destroyed.

Soon, the whispers started.

Crazy. Emotional. Overexcited. Unstable. Psychotic, from Puck of all people.

Mr. Schue was probably the worst offender.

After my collapse, he completely ignored me. Acted like I didn't exist. Like if he just tried hard enough, I would be normal again, and blow them away with a well-timed solo. Well-timed? Obviously you know I never get a solo. That honor is reserved for the Queen Bee, Rachel Berry.

They don't know I'm sick. And now it's all I am. Even though my medication has been working for months, one outburst and I'm the crazy girl.

I go to my psychiatrist, practically convulsing with worry.

"It's not working," I sob. "I cried in class during a song, and it's not working. It's back. The depression. Please, please help me."

He's an efficient man. He gives me a level stare. His hands fold over my lap.

"Tina," he says gently. "You need to remember that you experienced a traumatic experience less than a year ago. You're still just a teenage girl. It's perfectly normal for you to express your feelings. So you cried while performing? Who cares? You need to get back to what you feel is normal. It doesn't mean your medication's not working. It just means you're experiencing perfectly normal teenage feelings. If your friends don't understand that, they're not worth having."

I capture a sob in my throat, and glare at him.

"Really?" I ask, softly.

"Definitely." he says.

It's not enough. It doesn't work. He's still concerned, so he recommends a therapist. I throw the number in the trash.

Now I sit in my room, staring at my face in the mirror. Sad, red eyes. Barely contained sorrow.

I idly play with a razor blade, and wait for the courage to cut.

What does it matter anyway? If I ever told the Glee club I was bipolar, they'd mock me even more. They don't care. They don't even know what it's like to live with this mental illness. And Mike - oh, Mike. The look on his face after my solo - the worst of all. Barely restrained pity, as he watched his crazy girlfriend self-destruct.

I lower the blade to the pulse point in my left wrist, and before I lose my nerve, I slash swiftly, in a vertical direction. I saw enough movies. I know the right way to cut.

I fall back onto my bed, and with a trembling hand, I bring the blade to my other wrist.

The blood drips slowly out of my wrist, but I'm already weakening.

Dimly, I hear a knock on my bedroom door. I ignore it, and cut into my other arm, from wrist to elbow.

"Mike." I moan softly. "Mike."

I close my eyes, and feel the blood drip slowly onto the sheets. My parents are gonna be pissed.

I hear a loud thunk on the door. My vision is blurry, but gentle hands capture my wrists.

"Tina," the soft murmur reaches my ears. "Baby, what have you done?"

Through the tears, I blink and look up to find Mike staring at me, mouth parted in horror.

He turns and runs out of the room. I hear his screams echo outside my room.

A soft smile graces my features. I try to cover my leaking arms, but am almost paralyzed. The pain has shifted lower, and a soothing warmth begins to envelop me.

Finally.

Everyone will know.

I'm not crazy.


End file.
